


a tout pourquoi il y a un parce que

by sybilius



Series: l’espoir fait vivre [1]
Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Use Positive, Early Relationship, Healthy Communication, Kim goes on a thought project and you get to come along, M/M, Multi, Non-Explicit Suicidal Content, One Night Stands, Police being...ACAB among other things, Relationship Anxieties, Second person POV, Trans Male Character, backstory fic, good ending, workplace harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28991901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: “Focus on *other* people’s troubles. Not your own. That is the relief.”You remember he took that as wisdom. You’re not so sure.*Five connections Kim Kitsuragi remembers, and one more he's deciding whether to trust.
Relationships: (brief on the last one. Will get back to you), Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi, Kim Kitsuragi/Jean Vicquemare, Kim Kitsuragi/Others
Series: l’espoir fait vivre [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091684
Comments: 13
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title means “for every why there is a because” (or as it’s usually stated “Every why has a wherefore”). It’s an ironic title, but speaks well to Kim’s thought processes throughout it. 
> 
> The basic concept of this fic was 5+1 with Kim’s (evil) exes. That’s partially a joke, really only the middle two are all that bad. I’ll give some chapter warnings/spoilers at the start if there’s anything you want to take a miss on, otherwise just scroll past the start notes. 
> 
> This fic is a love letter to anyone who has ever had a string of bad relationships and is worried about what’s becoming the next one.
> 
> All my thanks to Fyu, who beta'd the first and the last parts of this, and listened to my excited babble about it <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some spoilers for the content about the trans character, if readers have specific triggers:
> 
> There’s a young trans male character in the first segment who was Kim’s first crush/friend. At the time the character is pre-transition, but since the story is narrated by The City on some level, and they are playing pretend, the character is not misgendered. There is an implication of a deadname, but not really anything more than that. The character is looked up in police records (which is a shady action if you think about it) but is known to be alive and well.

The city of Revachol cradles infinite possibility in her decaying concrete hands, their stories dripping between her fingers like the spring rain. A lorry driver speeding too fast around the corner. The persistent smell of exhaust from a father’s broken-down car. A woman reading a magazine, idly flipping greasy sausage starting to blacken on an outdoor grill. 

You, taking from your pocket a cardboard box marked by a black triangle, plucking out the single cigarette you allow yourself. Most often at this time, under the sagging awning of a long-closed hair salon. You cast a glance down the sidewalk, placing the cigarette between your lips. 

You’re far enough from the Precinct that you rarely need to exchange pleasantries with your fellow officers. Soon, you’ll trace the same pathway behind Precinct 57’s worn concrete walls, start up your Coupris Kineema, and find your way home to the quiet of your apartment again. 

Not yet. You’re waiting. Thinking. Hoping. 

The hope comes in and out, like the flicker of your lighter, going out against the gust of wind. You click the starter anew, the cigarette catching at last. 

You take a long drag.

You’re thinking of another apartment, littered with the wreckage of a near-stranger’s life, made new by your efforts. The kiss that landed on your lips, brushed off as overenthusiasm. You didn’t know how to take it. 

The kiss you returned weeks later, when he came by your apartment unannounced in the evening, and you couldn’t bring yourself to ask then why he was there. What he might have been running to you from. You only asked if he would stay, pass the night, and he did. 

You didn’t fuck Harry Du Bois then. You couldn’t. 

You’re thinking about what this could mean for you. What  _ he  _ could mean. 

And what’s worse, all who came before. 

* * *

  
  


No one would peg you as the type to remember a first kiss; and yet -- 

The two of you are barely more than children, wild with a few hours freedom that you’re given at turning over to  _ majeune  _ in the orphanage. Directives completed for the day, Matron content to shrug and wave you off to the streets. Simply you, and your best friend -- or rather, your comrade in arms. 

There isn’t a child in Revachol, orphaned or not, who hasn’t played some variant of Revolution roleplay. Impossible not to, the way the streets are steeped in it, some of them still bombed out with husks of former monuments. You don’t do well with the other children-- they too-easily insist on you in the role of “Seolite spy”. Luckily, your friend has similar qualms with being declared as “screaming citizen” or “crying mother” -- but you’ve never had a problem with just the two of you. 

That day, you were Nagisa and Montgomery, grounded aerostatics engineers weaving their way through the bombed-out husks of the Commune. On that day the white bloc was your primary enemy, keeping eyes around the grimy brick corners for imaginary anarchists. 

“Eyes up! Quick, around the corner!” Montgomery’s lilting voice beckons you up the rusty iron stairs to the fire escape. “DUCK!”

The two of you cling together for cover, your knees hitting what’s left of the dirty snow dripping onto the streets in the spring. Montgomery grabs your hand, taking the steps two at a time.

“Come on! We need to get to the high ground!”

He always could set the scene simply by imagination alone, the crumbling old empire rising up to your boots on the concrete. When you get to the top, you pause to savor the harbor view, stretching out into the haze of the setting sun. The crimson and orange cast almost manages to color the encroaching pale.

"You stay there, the snipers will get you!" the voice is almost muffled by the wind. You turn, only to see your friend perched on the next building over. You step closer to the edge, eyeing the gap. It could be two metres. It could be three. 

“How did you get over there?”

“Jumped, course! You gotta take it at a run, they’re coming!”

“Isa--”

“Nagisa! Come on! They’re right on you! You’re not safe from the snipers!” the urgency in his voice tugs at panic in your chest, irrational. You hear a shout from below, angry -- you meet his eyes, legs striding as fast as you can -- the ground nearly ten meters below -- 

\-- your feet don’t even scuff the edge, it’s your hands that manage to grab it, your grip saved only by the worn gloves that you covet. You’re hanging on for dear life, and absurdly your only thought is  _ the snipers are going to shoot me down _ \-- 

Your comrade screams, but even as he does he’s got your arms gripped hard, hauling you up as your legs scrabble against the side of the building. You tumble over the safety of the roof, and just like that, it’s over, your body throbbing with the impact of what’s happened. 

“Oh Innocence, I thought I -- I thought--” he clings to you. Somewhere in the vice-grip hug, desperate gasps of breaths, a clumsy brush of lips meets yours. Your mouth slips open and your teeth bump together, almost painful. Your vision blurs with water.

The thump of your heart urges you to do it again.

Then a rush of reality steps in, questions of what this  _ means _ for you, for him -- you flinch away, staring at your gloves for a moment. Unwilling to look down.

“I don’t want to be up here.” you eventually choke out. 

“Right then, let’s -- let’s get home soldier.”

You don’t ask for an Ace’s Low, as you usually do to close the night. 

He vanishes from the orphanage a week later -- not the first runaway, nor the last. You make your peace with it; explore the streets alone. 

At the time you’ll blame the theatre of it all -- two soldiers sharing a blood-hot moment, the two of you got caught up in it. You saw what you wanted to see in him then. Just kids, playing pretend. For you it wasn’t. 

You’ll grit your teeth more than a decade later, the aftershock of grief driving you back to this memory. A call to the orphanage, a quiet few hours with a stack of records. It’ll take more time than you expect, but you’ll find him. 

You’ll find him under a different name, one that suits him far better than the weighty damsel’s name ever did. Scott Allard has a mug shot wrapped in a thick winter coat, a patchy beard that makes his chin look strong as a soldier. 

Just the one run-in with the RCM, too -- petty theft, otherwise still alive and well. 

By then, of course, you’ll know better than to call him. 

* * *

  
  


And speaking of; the second. They'll all linger with you, but this one last and best. 

Something about the way he  _ says  _ things outright keeps you coming for him, even when he rambles suicidal nothings on the phone late at night, even when he asks you every time if you’ll freebase, crisscross, cook down, space base with him and whoever the hell else on Friday nights. You’ve learned more drug slang from him than from the precinct. Not that he listens to your patient speech every other time about how you’d prefer not to know. 

But some of his words stick with you besides that.

Like this one: “Kim Kitsuragi, good cop extraordinaire who still for some reason shares my bed, I may love you with every damn molecule in this stupid star-shot body. Thanks for not arresting me.”

It’s a ridiculous, dramatic confession, the two of you sprawled all over a paint-splattered dropsheet on the mattress, not a stitch on you. You study the swirls of color on his latest work, the scent of linseed oil almost heady in the room. It probably looks more compelling to someone on mind-altering substances. 

“Arresting you is out of my jurisdiction,” you reply, for lack of anything more poignant. Elis snorts, brushing back his sweat-slick brown hair. 

“Because I’m not jailbait.”

You’re barely a year into the job, and already the juvie cases are grating on you. They’re monotonous and equally steeped in despair. You’re good at them. And you realize in that moment, when you turn to brush his thin mustache with your lips, that you wouldn’t trade it for narcotics division even if that was on the table. 

“It doesn’t escape me that what we do was illegal not so long ago. I’ll pick my battles,” you reply mildly. 

His dark eyes sparkle, “You’re so principled. S’why I love you best.”

You raise an eyebrow, unable to resist being contradictory, "You're still seeing Benny?"

That’s never bothered you, for some reason. You figure you have very little skin in the game, what with Elis being halfway to an addict. He just laughs, nudging his head into your shoulder. 

"Course, I can be ride or die for both of you. You think a mom loves her kids one more than the other? Fucked up, that’d be.”

"Asking an orphan that?" You can't resist the jab. He shakes his head with a smile, brushing a hand through your hair. 

"See I love that, I love that you've got your strangeness with me now."

You lean into his touch easily, a smile forming at the corner of your mouth. It's a phrase he spins around a lot, when he speaks of love: "finding the strange in the stranger". From a translation of an Oranjese poem, romanticizing the mundane details that manage to be idiosyncratic about a lover. 

“Come with us on Friday. Live a little.”

You half-wish that particular strangeness he could be less insistent about. 

“No.” you say firmly. And he drops it, this time at least. Next time you both give each other the same speech, and fuck to avoid arguing about it. You avoid many things together, let him spool out his fascinating web of a world for you. At times you delude yourself into thinking you could untangle it. 

But it’s not until he starts selling that you finally cut that cord, citing your professional life. It’s a relief and an aching sore both. His body won’t find its way to the Precinct Morgue for another two years. Hit and run, just the wrong place, wrong time. 

You’ll ask to leave the room. Smoke a second cigarette; for him alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worldbuilding notes:
> 
> majeune - I was looking for a word that was sort of a Revachol coming-of-age word; so it’s a bit of a play on the French majeur for coming of age. 
> 
> Scott is a really cool character and I’ve got some idea of what he’s like in the present (he’s thriving). I’d like to write him into another story-- so that’ll probably come in time. 
> 
> I love Elis a lot. He’s vaguely a riff on a similar-ish character in Orphan Black, Felix, which is a show I recommend. I was sad when I realized he’d have to be leaving the story. I wanted to explore someone who may have given Kim at least more passively open-minded ideas about drug use since he is...relatively calm about dealing with everything from Harry in canon. I also have my own reasons for planting the seeds of “open relationship experience” with Kim in this ‘verse :-*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has the “evil exes”, so to speak. 
> 
> There is a character who is chaotic and possibly manipulative, who leaves a suicide note rather than resolving the connection he and Kim share. There is then a character who is a one-night stand who turns up in a workplace scenario with a side of violent homophobia. 
> 
> This chapter is meant to evoke more complex emotions regarding internal issues with the police. Keep in mind the writer doesn’t necessarily side with Kim’s decisions / thoughts / sympathies here. More notes on that at the end.

The rain is coming down harder, rather than petering out. Revachol whispering to linger a while, stay the course and let your past walk its way over your thoughts. You lean back against the concrete, tapping your cigarette. 

There’s something to be learned here. Isn’t there?

It’s been a long time since you reached back for Elis’ memory. The loss colors it into something far more vibrant and lush than it was, you remind yourself. There’s no need to compare his sweeping artistic soliloquy to the eager ramblings of an amnesiac rediscovering the world. 

But your thoughts insist on drawing that Vespertine diagram nonetheless. 

All this interpolation, this calculus -- does it matter? For better or for worse Lieutenant Harry du Bois has careened into your life, has his name neatly written in your case notes, hell, he even took tea on your couch a few nights ago and you  _ let _ him. How could you stop this now?

You could; another sharp reminder. There were always moments where you could have cut the cord, every second spent on the company you kept was a choice. 

And those mistakes too, those men. They were choices. 

* * *

  
  


The third time. You try so damn hard for it. Whether it’s Elis’ ghost on your back or the creeping feeling of three decades passing, the case count stacking up on the same desk, the same perps again and again until they age out of your department. Some of them make it. Not enough for your temperament. 

It is in that liminal space between the hope that the next juvie case will be the last and trying to distract yourself from your dead-end professional life that Deni slips right in. He’s a slouched shadow in the back of a few meetings of the motorcycle repair crew that you still make time for on weekends, just to keep yourself sane. You catch his ice-blue eyes once, and try to push down your curiosity about the dark shadows beneath them.

At this point, your sleepless nights have marked you just the same. 

One evening the crew decides to go out for a drink at a bar. The music is just winking at the idea of  _ disco _ \-- you’re watching him dance with a woman, somewhere between stiff and arrestingly elegant, and wishing, inexplicably, it was with you. 

_ Wishes _ . That children’s story Matron used to favor flickers through your mind. It was about a poor couple with a finger-bone relic from Banaital. As the bones for a wish, they twisted inhuman. And the way the wishes were granted -- cruel and inhuman. Or perhaps terribly human. It sounded like melodramatic fear-mongering about the Semenese even at that age. 

Deni catches your stare. He crosses the floor, broad shoulders and a drunken smirk like he knows a secret. 

“Want to get out of here?”

You do, you  _ do _ . Anywhere he'll take you.

But oh he fucking  _ takes _ . 

The two of you play ‘pitchtoss’ in his words, for your motorcycle group the first week after you’ve fucked. You spend far too long watching his muscled hands work over your Entrevellus, taking in his barbed little remarks about his past. You mistake reticence for wisdom when he rambles juvenile philosophy. 

It’s similar to what you had with Elis, except he's never the one to ask you to stay. It's absurd that seeing him once a week, sometimes twice, leaves you with such a fervid thirst for more. 

You file "corrosive desire for excessive attention" under your weaknesses and take what you can. Rearrange your movements around what hints he drops about the time you can have together. 

It's a case to solve, isn't it, and it's far more engrossing than the tedious scraps you're thrown at work. Every careless word with him, the funny little knit of his brow after sex, the way his fingertips dance over your knuckles is something inexplicably precious. 

Then there’s the apologies that amount to nothing, the self-flagellation that you end up talking around into circles until four in the morning, the way the background actions of your life seem to fall off, one by one, as you try, and try, and  _ again _ try to do as he asks of you. 

You ask for nothing, why would you? You have everything, do you not?

He’s giving you everything he can, isn’t he? Surely? If you could just crack the code, the right words, the right time, the right day -- he cares about you, you know this. 

You don’t question the epistemology of this statement until far too late. 

A would-be suicide note turns up; it’s scribbled on the back of a ticker-tape  _ receipt _ for  _ Innocence _ ’s sake. Holding it in your hands is what finally snaps reality into a sharp and sickly focus. You always did feel like things written down gave them a greater reality. 

You quietly attend six weeks worth of Moralintern approved counselling. You don’t let it stop you working. If you do, you know it will crumble what little foundation you had scraped together. 

The counselling at least teaches you enough to stick your hands in a bucket of ice, smash the pieces against brick rather than destroying anything worth caring about. You’re not sure what else you  _ would _ have done when you learn Deni is alive and well in Laurentide. 

Well. He has been arrested. 

For someone else, that could be a cold, savage comfort. All you feel when the face you once loved so well flashes into your mind is incandescent rage. 

* * *

  
  
  


There’s a blur of men without names after that. It’s less destructive than it sounds, more cathartic than anything. Becomes a ritual just like the cigarettes, the right tilt of the head at the right bar -- that’s something systematic. Flesh, sweat, release. 

The blowjob in the back room of the bar was one such night, it should have been innocuous. Oh, and you paid dearly for it. 

The same man swaggers into Precinct 57 the morning after, and from the way he pales, his whole body flinching when he sees you look up from the desk, you sincerely hope he’s not needed for anything involving subtlety. You’re feeling off-balance yourself, turning sharply back to the report on the CASE OF THE SHARPENED STAR. When you look up again. He’s standing over your desk.

“Officer Farrow, I presume?” you were briefed as to his arrival the day before. Neither of you gave names when you met him that weekend. 

“You,” he throws out the syllable like a weapon. 

“Yes?”

“Mmf. Outside.”

You nod, a sickly dread prickling at the edges of your skin. You chasten yourself -- if this is incriminating, it is equally so. Still, the small noises of the precinct drag at you as if you’re in a firefight, the scratch of a pen, the scratchy fuzz of the radio phone. Finally, you’re outside, the icy winter air whipping at your cheeks. He stomps to the nearby alleyway. Then all of a sudden he turns on you, red-faced and angry. 

“Listen, you so much as breathe a word of this, you fucking f--” 

“Breathe a word of what, Officer?” you stare at him. Your pulse pounds, but by the same token, this is no different from staring down a petulant child. Just an extension of work. 

“What we--”

“As far as I’m concerned, I’ve met you today,” you emphasize. His closeness is...concerning. It was barely arousing even with the hum of alcohol under your skin, and now knowing this, you feel nothing but disgust. Not for him. 

“Oh. Good. Keep it that way, understand? I’m going back in. Don’t follow me,” he stomps off, his boots heavy.

You take your cigarette then, wondering why you need to force the calm back under your skin. It’s him that’s threatened. There’s already one or two rumors about you in the precinct, and whether they’re considered unsavory or not, you don’t care to know.

Your professionalism is impeccable, and if what you do outside of work is jeopardizing that, you’ll need to reconsider it. 

For the next month or so you wean yourself off human touch, biweekly becomes monthly, becomes months on end with nothing but single-minded focus on your work. Perhaps that, finally will grant you some advancement, some recognition, some way out of this godforsaken looped track of youth doused in self-loathing kerosene and set ablaze by frustrations made criminal. 

Nothing comes of it at the precinct. You’re too tired to be surprised.

You do find yourself, however, unusually attuned to Officer Farrow’s actions, an unsteady shake in your hand when his heavy steps pass by the hallway near the juvenile office. He’s a Commercial crimes officer, probably sorted there for his muscle and little else. 

One evening you’re meticulously sorting evidence in the basement locker, sealing small foils into plastic bags. You hear those heavy boot-steps again and cautiously slip behind a shelf next to the wall. It’s then you hear a voice you don’t recognize.

“It’s a green leather notebook -- yes, this,” the crinkle of a bag unzipping. From what little you can see, it’s an older man, well-dressed. Perhaps a business owner? 

Farrow grunts, “So what, you need this gone?” 

“You have to ask? Tch. Take this.” 

You don’t need to peer between the edges of the shelf to confirm that money is changing hands. Farrow stuffs it in his pocket, at least having the grace to look over his shoulder before he glares back at the stranger. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Go home, Farrow. We both have what we want,” the quick sound of feet ascending the stairs. The huff of a sigh, maybe even regret in it. Then the heavy bootfalls fade into quiet again. You breathe out. Wait a few more minutes before 

He doesn’t even bother to replace it, damnit. 

This could very easily destroy him. 

You must be very careful it does not come back on you. 

Hearsay isn’t enough, though, so you take to tracing his movements on your off-hours. It’s not as if the juvie cases are anything but routine by now. Some of the settings are as you expected, a run-down apartment, raucous and seedy bars. Some of it is unusual, the run-down house on the edge of that middling district the precinct is constantly arguing about. 

It takes you longer than you expect to get hard evidence, given how blatant the exchange in the evidence locker is. Whether taking bribes is only an occasional habit or no, you’re exhausted by the time you catch sight of him in the alleyway, passing information to someone that the homicide department has had eyes on for more than a month. 

You file the photographs in an anonymous folder, mail it to the Captain of the 57th. You half-bitterly expect nothing to come of it -- god knows you were encouraged to let things slide with officers before. Not that you ever liked it. 

You don’t ask yourself why now is  _ different _ , but it will be. 

The next day you hear raised voices in the Captain’s office-- not anger. Cold judgement -- open despair, pleading. You walk away quickly back to your desk, a hollowness settling in you. You breathe in, the sensation dragging over your chest like needles. You put the image of the old woman Farrow visited every other day in Martinaise out of mind. 

This is what you hoped for, yes? For the right reasons?

Farrow’s bootsteps don’t disturb your work anymore. You turn it over for months, and still never get an answer as to whether you did right, or whether it was simply personal. Who was protected. Who was collateral. 

You check on the address of the old woman one evening. The house is boarded up by now, the  _ FOR SALE _ sign mouldering beneath it. You have the soul of a detective, you always have. 

This gives you no answers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vespertine Diagram - Venn Diagram. John Venn was British himself, though I mostly picked “Vespertine” because it evoked the same V. 
> 
> The story about Banital is a riff on the “monkey’s paw” story. As with most things I’ve looked up details on for worldbuilding reasons, whew, colonialism, amiright? 
> 
> ‘Pitchtoss’ - Playing ‘hooky’. Hooky comes from the Dutch word for hide-and-seek, here I swapped it out for another word for hide-and-seek. 
> 
> Entrevellus - Chose the name for a motorcycle brand. No real lore here, it just sprung to mind. 
> 
> The ways in which the police protect each other from their crimes ranges from wince-worthy to heinous. Kim’s (mostly) acceptance of Harry in the game is always framed as a good thing from his perspective (and indeed, it’s a good decision for Harry, and given that the player-character is Harry); but part of me wonders if he ever was the kind of person who held other officers to higher standards? Obviously most of this fic is a study of experiences that may have shaped Kim into the person we see in canon. 
> 
> Also, while I’m here, yeah, ACAB, this includes Kim.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not really as much to warn in this one! Uh, intense self awareness with a side of "well I can't do shit about it?" hahah yeah.

The cigarette’s heat licks its way closer to your glove. 

There are many on the force you gave perhaps one more chance than they deserved, out of guilt for what you did to Farrow. Harry you could even count as one of them. Your memory flashes briefly to his partner, spitting out the near-endless list of disasters as the two of you stood on trial at the edge of the fishing village. The quantity and breadth of them shouldn’t have surprised you. And yet. 

You take a searing drag from the cigarette, shifting it between your fingers. 

Harry has done a lot with his second chance, for a man with his history. For now. 

_He could do more if you stayed by his side_ , a honeyed thought floats to your consciousness, and you don’t trust it. Tempting as it is. 

You ask yourself, gently, what _you_ wish from Harry du Bois, and a thousand images shimmer up in your mind. Him, laughing full-bodied in your apartment, the harsh fluorescent lights oddly warm on his cheeks. His hands eagerly popping out cardboard coins by the crackle of a meager fire. The sense of wonder in his eyes as he caressed a huge spindle-legged creature you would have swore ten times over didn’t exist. 

Those desires are simple, at least. Uncomplicated. A giggle cuts through the rain, two lovers, hand in hand exiting the video store across the street. Clustering close to each other under a tiny umbrella. You’ve never felt young enough to want a love that looks like that. Small ironies for a man that could pose as fifteen at thirty-eight. 

What you _want_. His body, yes. Naturally. There’s nothing shameful nor dangerous nor particularly transcendent in that. 

What you want that’s dangerous; you lick your dry lips, tapping the cigarette absently. Part of you is still holding onto that breath that caught in your throat when you saw the mess of his hotel room. The part of you that itched to order it, and turning to his helpless apologies, something tugged at the center of you and you knew you had to leave before you...couldn’t. 

The words of a lover that never was lingered then as you fled, and here, they find you again. 

* * *

The last time will barely count for anything. A miss, very nearly, like one of your shots at the range. Those get worse every year. 

You haven’t found your way to one of Revachol’s disco-nostalgic clubs since you picked up the pinball ring case. Every waking moment was spent attuning yourself to those puerile flashing lights, the jarring mechanical snap of the paddles -- you take a snip of your Sur-La-Clef Sooky, trying to take in where you are now. 

It might be your imagination or the years between, but it’s more difficult to make out the shapes and faces of bodies in the flashing lights. Even beyond the dance floor, the orange-and-purple glow of stained glass wall fixtures next to stained booths seem less inviting. 

You’re not asked for identification anymore. You’re not asked much of anything. 

You might prefer it that way. 

As a victory, however, as a hard-earned indulgence, this seems a bit hollow.

You’re just about to call an early night, perhaps thumb through the manual to consider alterations to your Kineema, when someone sits down hard on the stool next to yours. 

“Buy you a drink?” your companion speaks like he’s lived in Revachol his whole life. The words, however, come out with a forced casualness. Without looking at him, you know this man is as rusty at this as you are. 

You turn to take him in. He looks to be younger than you, by at least three years, if not more. His messy mustache covers some of the details, along with pocked scarring along the side of his face. Anxious personality, no doubt. 

“Sure,” you reply, before any kind of better judgement gets ahold of you. He orders a whiskey, Grand Couron 40 proof, under his breath. You just ask for the same. 

"I don't come here particularly often," you say, both as a parley to the cliche and as a reassurance. He tucks his head down with something between a cough and a laugh. 

"Yup. Same here," he takes a nervous sip of his whiskey, "So. What is it you do?"

You cough on the drink. He really does _not_ come here often, leading with a question like that. Which will it be, the old lie, a new one? Surely not the truth?

"There are better questions to ask," you manage, reaching for one of your own, "You seen the cirrus roosting?"

To your surprise, he snorts and offers his hand under the bar. You slap it -- ace’s low. Perhaps it wasn’t such a poor idea, accepting his offer. 

“You’re an aerostatics junkie?” he asks a moment later, taking in your bomber jacket, all the way down to your pants. It might be an excuse to give your body the Clef Crawl. Or that just might be the way it prickles across your skin. You smile back, turning to lean against the bar. 

“People tend to jump to ‘revolutionary.’ “ you say, with enough of a tilt to your eyebrow that he knows he’s made the right observation. 

“You’re good at not answering questions, you know,” he shakes his head. His eyes filter through the crowd in a way that looks -- not nervous but. Assessing. 

“You’re better at noticing details than most.” 

Despite the thrum of music from the dance floor, with low voices huddled close you manage a conversation -- one that skips along from one hour to nearly two, spinning from everything to car mechanics to drug efficacy to melancholic political discourse. It’s always been easy to lose time in a place like this -- the light doesn’t change with the moon in the sky, no markers but the pulse of music and shifts in the rhythm of the flashing colors. 

When you notice the time, you’re stone sober, and from his steady gaze, he is too. This isn’t the worst idea you’ve had in years. 

“Join me for a cigarette?” you say, taking a last sip of water. He swallows visibly and nods, following you through the maze of raucous tables out into the streets. There’s something about the way he moves that evokes _kinship_ in you, the way he seems to look over his shoulder in time with you. Like he’s used to danger. 

Revachol is dripping a summer rain, the asphalt heady and scented. You find an awning, private enough that no one will take notice of your actions. The man takes out a book of matches when you get out your cigarette, striking it with his thumb. When he leans in with the flame, your foreheads almost come to touch.

“Thank you,” you exhale, the Astra tobacco sweet in your lungs.

“Course,” the sharp snap of a second match lights his own. 

You stand together, just under the pitter-patter of the rain, closer to the alleyway than to the door of the bar. The ache in your blood is just under fever pitch. Maybe it's been too many years. But you still remember the motions, the rhythm of waiting till the cigarette hangs loosely at his side. Lean in hand on his chin, tilt his face towards yours, your lips tickling at his mustache. 

It’s his warmth that makes you realize how cold it is, for Revachol in summer. 

The kiss shifts, winks at beautiful for a few seconds of pattering rain, before he pulls away, exhaling hard. Your eyes flutter open, meeting his, apologetic and downcast. 

He stuffs his hands into his long coat, “Ah, Dolores Dei. I -- I’m sorry.”

“No need to be,” you take a careful, guarded drag of your cigarette, shadowing your disappointment. 

“It’s not you, it’s -- there’s someone else. Thought it -- would help, trying to keep my head on straight. Stupid,” he shakes his head, “Look at me, I’m acting like a kid. Sorry, I mean -- I’m probably the one that’s too old for you.”

You adjust your glasses, studying him under the orange glow of the streetlamp, “How old do you think I am?”

“Um, twenty-eight?”

The laugh that forces out of your throat even _sounds_ painful. Your fingers twitch involuntarily, still tapping at pinball paddles. It’s only been two months out of juvie. The man seems surprised, leaning against the brick with consideration. 

“Well, shit, now you got me curious.”

You see no particular reason not to be blunt. “I’m thirty nine years old.”

“Shit. And Ly keeps saying I have a type and I need to deal with that shit. Though -- nah, you’re not quite there.”

“What’s missing?” you ask, simply because in spite of yourself, you’re enjoying his company. 

“You seem like you’re put together-- “ he whispers it almost ragged, “That’s my poison. Can’t stay away from a good goddamn mess.”

“Because you expect to get hurt?” you ask, genuine concern in your voice. He shakes his head, resignation in his eyes.

“So I can look at something else. Something worse.”

It’s so honest it shocks you into looking away. You won’t recognize his bitter smile in another place for years. This time, you are too busy seeing yourself in it. 

* * *

It’s that last missed connection that lingers on your tongue with the tabac. Cigarettes in a cool rain, it’s as if the whole encounter is on a strange reprise. The only difference is there’s a bit more light in the early evening sky. You stub out the cigarette on your boot, exhaling that memory from your lungs. 

It’s true you took the stranger’s words to heart. Farrow was unpleasant, but ultimately meaningless. The thought of inviting another Elis, another _Deni_ \-- that’s what kept you to your clean and regimented routine. 

Harry du Bois is none of those men. He may be worse. He may have been. 

You don’t know, is the truth of it. 

The asphalt path to your Kineema shines in the streetlights now, puddles gathering in the fractures. You expected -- better, after all that thought. Usually a cigarette helps settle matters for you, one of many reasons you weather the cravings day in, day out. 

The strongest commonality of all these men is that you found them. Courted their attention in one way or another-- is that something to mistrust? 

\-- it doesn’t seem enough of a reason not to _try_. 

Maybe that will damn you. Maybe Harry too. 

_Maybe_ , an all-too reasonable voice replies in your mind, _these are matters you need to take up with Harry, now that you’ve thought them through_. 

Talking to Harry. Figuring out what ‘trying’ would mean, together. Letting your thoughts be known to him, your breath in his lungs. The thought is more dizzying than leaping across rooftops, facing down gunfire between two opposing factions.

It also seems more and more like the fair course of action. You stretch your neck, the cold spring air singing in your tired muscles. The rain still faces you down, and you take a step towards it, away from the shelter of the salon’s rusty awning. 

“Kim?”

You turn, blinking through condensation on your glasses. Somehow, as if the fervor of your thoughts has called out to through Jamrock, Harry du Bois is here, at your precinct. Shifting from one foot to another under a huge blue umbrella.

“Harry,” you say quietly. Perhaps you should have gone for ‘ _detective_ ’. Somehow his presence here -- settles you, rather than throwing your decision into further doubt. He moves under the awning, the spokes of the umbrella scattering the rain on your cheek. 

“Hey Kim, I, uh -- wondered if you wanted to…” he trails off, looking sheepish, “I dunno, uh -- I didn’t think that far ahead, just got going here after work.” 

You duck under the umbrella without hesitation.

“Let’s walk.” 

You’re not sure where you mean, or why, but the fact that he simply nods and follows gives comfort tempered by a hint of terror. You still haven’t quite found the words you need to say. You don't say anything at all. He doesn’t seem to mind, keeping step with you as you head towards the pier. It’s a novelty, walking with the patter of the rain on vinyl above you, Harry’s movements attuned to yours, keeping you dry. You tilt your head at him as you walk. 

“My tie said I should come here,” he says, then winces, “Shit, I wasn’t supposed to say that, uh --”

A gust of a laugh escapes you, releasing some of the tension, “Good instincts, detective.”

“Oh? Thinking about me?” he presses, and you’re struck by the idea that none of the men in the memories you’ve been sifting over would have appeared, in that moment, in that way. What’s more, you would have pushed back if they had. 

“Yes. How was it back at the 41st?” to your memory, he’s been four days back on the job. Three since he last saw you. 

“Not...bad?”

“That is an improvement to bad,” the diplomacy comes to you easily. 

He skips over a particularly large puddle, “I’ll be doing desk work for a while. And --um. New partner. Judit.”

“...Too much history between you and Officer Vicquemare?” this should unsettle you, and yet -- just as with your lovers prior, it’s almost soothing. Hearing the knotted mess of someone else’s day-to-day, it’s always been easy to lose yourself in it. You hold that insight in your mind as the mist-covered pier comes in sight. 

“He asked for leave. I wish -- well, I wish I could say it was just that. I’ve...found out a lot about the shit I did. Shit that I’m never going to be able to make up, I just -- _fuck_ ,” he squeezes his eyes shut like it pains him, “God. Miscalculation. Bad topic.”

Stop, just as the forest of sailboat-masts rises up to meet your gaze. Under the streetlight, you reach for him carefully with a hand on his shoulder. Providing comfort is old muscle memory, tracking back further than him, but it means something to him, does it not?

“Do you remember that? The things you did?” 

“It comes in flashes sometimes. Like -- bits of a dream, I’m not sure if they happened or not sometimes,” he exhales, his eyes skipping across the clouds above as he searches for the right words, “Feels like shit to admit it but -- not sure I want to remember."

"Mm."

"But then, I do, because -- it’s shitty not to know, either. For who it happened to, I mean -- I’m not really making sense.”

You hum, distantly aware that hearing him articulate this vulnerability does mean something to _you_. For better or worse, “I think I understand. You’re seeing that it affects your colleagues.”

He rubs his beard ruefully, “Yeah. Half of them are tired. And the other half can’t stop with the ideas. Trant talked me into some kind of...Moralintern thing, counselling. You should have seen his face when I said I would. I guess -- wouldn’t have before.”

“Ah, I’ve done the six-week programme,” you admit, more easily than you thought you could, “It has its moments -- I learned some things from it, for certain. They don’t know as much as they pretend to, but it gave me...some new tools at a difficult time.”

“You?” he blinks, almost tripping over his feet. You’ve given yourself away -- 

“Yes --” if you let him, he’ll tear every word of your thoughts out from the past half-hour. 

You stop, your decision catching up to you just before you cross on to the docks. The grey of the sky shrouds the sunset to something darker than it should be. You squint at the horizon, oddly drawn to the memory of a view in an orange haze from a rooftop. 

"Your glasses are dirty, uh," Harry fumbles in the pockets of his RCM cloak, eventually coming out with an embroidered handkerchief. Yours, in fact. 

"Sorry, I-- should have given it back before," he scratches the back of his head. You’re still processing that he’s noticed your glasses at all. 

“Harry. I need something from you.”

The admission feels ugly, small. You swallow back that feeling. You remind yourself: you may _wish_ you could choke back the itch of _need_ in your lungs -- but sooner or later, you’ll have to breathe in. 

“Yeah?”

Harry's still here. Still asking. What is it you're asking for?

“I’ve been here before. Not -- with you, but I look at my history with men I’ve been drawn to, endings I don't want, and…” you trail off, realizing it sounds like an accusation. 

“...They’re the same kind of animal I was. Am,” Harry finishes the thought for you and you wince. You would have had the sense to say it more gently. Should have. 

“Listen to me, Harry. You're the first I probably couldn't stand to lose, I--" the words come out in a rush, too sudden, too raw. You wince, red snapping through your vision, "I just. I need you to know that.”

To be careful with that, you want to add, but you don't want to scare him. Or perhaps you simply don't like the uneasy fragility outlining its craquelure on the edges of your consciousness. 

“...what do you need me to do?"

"I don't know. Ask that, maybe? It's all--" you stop yourself suddenly, your heartbeat suddenly twice the tempo. You're not used to this. You shift gently closer to him, the warmth from his arm filtering close to you. 

He waits. The sea fills the silence between you. And with it, brings the word that you need to say. 

"I'm afraid, but I'm not going to let that stop me. Just don’t -- run. ” 

He twists his lips, the ghost of that pained expression again flashing over his face. It’s more gaunt in the streetlight, even with the so-called disco mustache trimmed neatly onto his face.

“I don’t know that running has ever been my problem,” Harry taps a hand against his leg, like old muscle memory from holding a cigarette. 

“There are many ways to leave someone,” you admit, pushing back some of your worst fears of relapse to the back of mind. 

“Yeah. Yeah.”

You take his hand. It feels exposed, but you don't know what else to offer as reassurance. All Innocence-- your words probably did enough damage as it was. 

But they were true, the sea whispers back. And that's almost enough. After a moment, a low and gentle trill floats out over the breeze. You shake your head, suck in the salty air, and whistle a tune of your own to join his. It’s calming. Just as you hoped it was for him, perhaps. 

The song fades. Harry squeezes your fingertips gently, “So...what now? 

“I suppose we -- make plans. To see each other,” you hum, the plan coming to you easily, "Twice a week, for now?”

"We can get kebabs on Fridays. Or -- whatever you like really, I think I used to get them a lot. We don't have to eat them on benches though, we can do it at your apartment, I liked it there. Or I mean, we don't have to--”

“That sounds lovely,” you pause, wondering if you should take the conversation there. You are both adults, “You can stay the night, you know -- we’ll take things at your pace.”

“Do you, um -- you have a lot of experience with men, right? I don’t -- even know if I did, but I feel like that’s a no.”

You purse your lips tight as you nod, the past hour settling into your bones, “Yes. Experienced. That’s a word for it.”

“I don’t know that I had much with women either, I-- yeah, shouldn’t talk about that,” he winces, “not right now.”

You let him walk away from that conversation. He’ll take it at his pace. 

“It only matters so much. With every person, there’s still a newness. Finding … the strange in the stranger, someone I once knew used to say,” the words linger as the memory fades. 

Harry nudges his shoulder closer, “You know so much that’s strange about me, Kim.”

“I do. I’m sure you’ve got a lot more, too,” you tilt your head to look him in the eye and smile, the breath passing between you warm and lingering. 

He laughs, the sound carrying out across the sea and into the evening. You savor it. 

“You too?”

“Yes,” you reply gently, grateful for the reminder, “Yes.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The exchange with Jean and Kim about the 'cirrus' is meant to be just a sort of aeronautics-junkie greeting exchange. 
> 
> I've sort of gone with for now that neither exactly remember each other; or rather. Kim doesn't quite remember Jean or is mistrusting his memory that it *was* Jean and I think Jean is willfully pretending it wasn't Kim/has other shit to deal with right now. I'll be back to tug on that thread later. Also, Ly is a friend of Jean's, another cool character I hope to introduce later :) 
> 
> This was a dense fic to write but I'm happy with it. I hope you enjoyed reading, comments very welcome <3


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